


My Champion

by Kalimdor



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Back when she was just vibing in Undercity and giving her favorites some sexy new upgrades, F/F, Forsaken Jaina, Pre Legion, Pre Warchief Sylvanas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23412799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimdor/pseuds/Kalimdor
Summary: My take on Jaina going through the same dark ritual that restored Nathanos.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 23
Kudos: 131





	My Champion

**Author's Note:**

> Yay for some Forsaken Jaina?

“Dark Lady?” 

Jaina winces. She feels ashamed that she cannot utter her Queen’s name with the same conviction that others are able to, her paper dry whisper of a voice cracking on the name as shredded vocal cords work to produce noise. 

Her Queen does not turn around but the subtle shift of an ear indicates she has heard. The room she has been summoned to is not one Jaina has seen before, and she’s been everywhere around this cursed city. From the looks of it, she can guess that this place is cold; dim and poorly lit, save for the thin pale beam of light from a slitted window high above. It casts across a central altar, one currently occupied by a struggling man, bare chested and skin slicked with filth and sweat, darkened to the point that the terrified whites of his eyes stand out as they fixate on her. 

The fallen mage waits, skeletal fingers tightening around her staff as if she were afraid of the human in front of her. But she’s not afraid, just monumentally aware of the presence of _life_ that she’s not been exposed to for some time now. Of the ragged breaths torn from lungs, of the heavy wet sound of his heart thumping against a rib cage. It makes her uncomfortable, it makes her _angry._

“Why have you brought me here?” She eventually asks, voice as grating as the rusted chains the human is struggling against. 

Her Queen turns around, red eyes peering searchingly. Jaina doesn’t like it when she does this; those burning embers that shine so bright, as though she’s individually pulled every part of her out into the open, inspecting each component like a child would peer at insects under the relentless glare of a magnifying glass. She hates that every time the beautiful features of her face twist into something of regret, as though she looks at Jaina, searching, only to find herself wanting. Jaina fights the urge to cover what little of her face is exposed under the hood and mask, to shield her own filmy, yellowish eyes from sight so that her Queen is not displeased once more to look upon them. 

“This man.” Sylvanas’s voice is hauntingly beautiful with that two toned echo and the subtle lilt of a Thalassian accent. “Do you know who he is?” 

Jaina frowns with what little facial muscles she has left and steps forward. The man growls, almost inhuman in his fear as he stares at her with revulsion. “He’s Kul Tiran” she states, already knowing this to be obvious from the anchor tattoo emblazoned across his chest, of the further artwork of sea-serpents and sirens, a beautiful mer sitting resplendently across his left breast, tail curled invitingly and expression coy. 

“Yes he is, is his face not familiar to you at all?” Jaina flinches as her Dark Lady trails a hand across the man’s bare skin and he violently shakes at her touch, spitting pleads and curses all at once as the chains clank noisily. 

There’s a moment of silence as Jaina poises, unnaturally still as her sluggish mind tries to bring a name to the terrified face. “I do not know who he is.” She eventually utters, disappointed that she has yet again failed her Queen. 

Those red eyes close as if in pain, yet The Dark Lady merely lets out an outward sigh of relief before holding a hand out in invitation. Jaina realizes in shock that she’s out of her usual armor, dressed in a dark wrap that is reminiscent in design to the clinical robes the Sin’Dorei priests wear when stationed in the medical-tent. Her hair is up and off her slender neck as she snaps the material of the sterile leather gloves against her wrists. Jaina flinches at the sound. 

“I need you to remove your hood, and strip down to your undergarments.” 

Jaina reels back in shock. For a horrible moment she even briefly entertains the idea of denying her Queen her request. These dark robes, her mask and hood- they are her solace, her protection against the cruelty of the outside world. She knows she’s a hideous thing underneath them, skin ragged and flayed from her very bones, a hole in her cheek that flashes both tongue and teeth and a ridged spine that juts between her shoulder blades like the spikes down a thunderlizard’s back. 

Though it’s not the reactions of the living that bother her, with their endless noise and sweating and reeking of sickness that in itself is disgusting, but the way her Queen would look upon her with loss in her eyes, like one would glance pityingly at a knackered carthorse that had once been a prized stallion. Her Quee- _Sylvanas_ would look at her sometimes with such woeful disappointment that Jaina wished she were relieved of her duty just so she could crawl onto the pyre herself, allowing her wretched, disappointing form to be reduced to ash. 

But her Queen has given her an order. Slowly, her unbeating heart a leaden weight in her throat, Jaina pulls back her hood, unties her robes so that they slip from her bony shoulders. All the time Sylvanas barely seems to react, red eyes that normally slide away seem to this time peer at her with a scrutiny that Jaina can hardly bear. 

The robes hit the floor with a soft thump and she’s exposed to both Queen and captive in all her horrendous glory. 

“Jaina?” 

She wasn’t expecting to hear her name from the cowering human on the altar. His whimpers have died now, as he stares quietly at her, slack jawed and heartbroken. 

“Step forward, Agatha.” Sylvanas drawls the words, almost dismissively, and it's only now that Jaina notices a fourth presence in the room. The tall winged Valkyr approaches and Jaina gazes up at her in reverence. A small, lost part of her feels drawn to this woman, as if a faded memory is crying out to be held in those strong arms, to be lifted into the grace of the heavens above. 

But she is a wretched skeletal thing that grips onto her staff- half in support, half in protection as the Valkyr puts a guiding hand onto the small of her back, leading her to stand in front of this living human that bleeds his warmth into the moisture of the room. For a moment Jaina feels her jaw tremble and her throat seize with the feral desire to consume his flesh. 

She’s disgusted with herself for even allowing that notion to cross her mind. Ever since her Dark Lady returned to her the last vestiges of her sanity, Jaina has vowed to never entertain the monster inside that endlessly hungers.

Which is why she is so godsdamn _weak._ But… maybe she doesn’t have to be. 

“This man right here, he’s very important to us and it took me a long, long time to find him.” Sylvanas murmurs, brushing a few errant ropey strands of hair away from Jaina’s forehead as she too crowds in close, ears alert and a desperation in her face that the undead mage hasn’t seen before in a long time. “With his help I can make you stronger, make you whole again.” 

Jaina pauses for a long time, watches as the man stares at her like she’s a ghost, like she’s some cruel nightmare personally made just for him. 

“Why me?” She eventually asks and regrets it, for the look Sylvanas gives her is yet again one of loss and disappointment. Jaina wishes she would stop failing her. 

“Because you are my champion.” The Dark Lady eventually replies, her voice so quiet that Jaina’s feeble hearing barely picks it up. 

“I am ready to begin on your command, my lady.” The Valkyr’s voice sounds rich and commanding, like a no-nonsense mother helping a child accomplish a difficult task. And even more strangely, Sylvanas looks up at her with that same hopeful gaze of trust before turning back to Jaina with an impassive look, though the mage can see through it enough to spot the underlying fear.

The Banshee Queen was… afraid? Jaina did not understand why. 

“As much as I wish to perform this ritual, as always, it has to be your decision.” Sylvanas gestures toward the man. “He is your salvation, but just as easily you can deny my request- I will never force my will upon you, or anyone else.” 

Jaina knows this. She always would know. Because her Queen, despite what abhorrent things the living may accuse her to be, would never make her a slave. 

“Jaina.” The man whispers up at her, voice hoarse. “Please.” 

He must have known her in life. Perhaps they had been friends once. Jaina leans forward, trying to see past his blue eyes into his soul. What did he expect by begging her? His freedom? Jaina found that notion laughable. Whether she chose to use him or not, he was a dead man either way. She can only give him enough respect to hold his gaze as he pleads for his life. 

And such blue eyes they are as well. For a moment Jaina feels a wave of longing overtake her and unbidden her hand reaches out toward Sylvanas. Perhaps seeking comfort? She wasn’t sure, she has never allowed herself to show such weakness before. And again her Dark Lady surprises her by reaching back, undeterred by her flensed fingers as they curl around hers in a strong, comforting grip. 

“Okay.” Jaina whispers, and with those words, the blue eyes, soft and liquid like the ocean, died out. 

* * *

Jaina pauses, shirt still half unbuttoned as she senses the cool presence of her Dark Lady behind her. Her fingers, now clad in newly knitted flesh still as well, sensitive, as they trace across the smooth pearled texture of the button. She can’t help but marvel at her new found touch, how the chill of the air prickles across her skin, how the cool tiles of the floor smart against bare feet. She even marvels at the sensation of soft, platinum hair brushing against broad bare shoulders as she turns her head, the tendon of her neck straining against smooth, unblemished skin. She looks almost as she once did in life, save for the pale alabaster skin and the dark circles around eyes that shine an eerie arcane blue. 

But there’s also something about her that feels… off. Her jawline is stronger than it once was, a little more masculine; her nose is straighter too, with a slight bump across the bridge of it- a familiar feature- but not one that belonged to her. 

She’s so much stronger now, the arcane comes to her readily- already a formidable mage on the battlefield before- but now she would be unstoppable, one who would be worthy of serving her Queen. 

With the sensation of touch, other feelings have made themselves known, ones she would really rather forget. Flashes of memory; of spring tides that sent licks of froth up the cliffside, of the endless rain. She remembers wet, green grass and the smoky scent of a campfire, of damp leather and horse sweat as they rode together under the sunbathed forests of Quel’Thalas. A young mage with hair in a messy bun and a smart elven ranger in uniform, who swept her behind a pillar and kissed her until her lips were swollen and the air torn from her lungs. 

It is these memories that Jaina holds onto as she feels the achingly soft press of lips against the bare skin of her shoulder. When ember eyes, burning with silent emotion, regard her through the mirror, as if waiting. 

And Jaina knew Sylvanas was waiting for her to snap, it was only a matter of time. The fog that surrounded her Forsaken-addled brain had lifted and with it came all the pain, the guilt and the loss that stabbed into her like a fresh blade with each memory that returned. And emotionally she is bleeding out. 

“My champion,” Sylvanas croons, pressing another kiss, this time behind her ear and Jaina’s eyes flutter at the sensation. “My beautiful mage.” A hand cups her jaw, gently turning her face back toward the mirror. “What do you see?” 

They look good together. Truly. A tall human, pale as moonlight and eyes like a glacier and a lithe elf, ethereal in her beauty yet just as deadly as she is captivating, with sharp angular features and regal ears that tilt back in a silent question. The shirt Jaina had been buttoning up flares open at her chest and the lost sensation of nausea coils within her stomach at the faded outline of an anchor-shaped scar that stretches its way across the exposed expanse of skin. 

Jaina opens her mouth as the words stick within her throat. Her voice is strong now, yet she has never found it harder to speak. She swallows noisily, eyes closing in pain as her expression hardens. She opens them once more to glare at her reflection in the mirror. 

“I see my brother.” 


End file.
